


just another shitty day!

by anotherdirtycomputer



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Realities, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother-Sister Relationships, Family Feels, Gen, Mental Health Issues, mentions of past suicide attempts and abuse, nathan caulfield au, nathan prescott deserves better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 02:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17256029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotherdirtycomputer/pseuds/anotherdirtycomputer
Summary: Nathan Caulfield wakes up one morning to his sister acting like a total whackjob.Or: Max ends up in another alternate reality and struggles to find a way home. Told from Nathan’s point of view.





	just another shitty day!

**Author's Note:**

> i've been working on this for LITERALLY ages and i actually ended up rewriting the entire fic ,, and i'm done working on it even though i'm not completely happy with it so...! hopefully it's still enjoyable 💕 apologies for any formatting issues
> 
> happy new yeaaar and welcome to twenty-biteen (or whatever year it is when you read this)

Nathan has a pretty basic morning routine. The doctor says it’s important to keep a routine, that it gives his body a reason to get out of bed - and, given the changing weather, he’s sure he’s going to need a few of those, even with his meds.

Every morning, it goes like this;

His phone alarm wakes him with whatever song it decides to shuffle up. He turns it off, goes back to sleep, and naps until his sister wakes him up at 7 AM by gently knocking on his door. He gets up, they have breakfast (waffles for her, coffee and pills for himself, plus some toast if she gives him puppy eyes). Then, he drives them both to school and they hang out for a bit before classes start.

It’s a good routine, if you ask Nathan. Even though he  _ could _ just not set an alarm, that “extra” hour of sleep always makes him feel more rested somehow. Then, being woken up by his sister instead of a machine helps him feel cared for; he feels like he’s  _ worthy _ of leaving his room, because someone cares enough to want him to leave it. And sitting together to talk or watch something together during breakfast is cool, too. The drive is nice. They put music on and sometimes they laugh and sing along and sometimes it’s just sleepy and quiet and peaceful. Then, they’re at school, and the day truly begins.

It’s a damn good routine. Even Dr. Volpe thinks so.

When Nathan wakes on his own at 8:43, he feels groggy, confused, and not a little worried. Did he sleep through the knocking? He doesn’t think so; he’s a pretty light sleeper, usually, especially since they’ve weaned him off the sleep meds.

“Shit,” he grunts against his pillow. “Okay. We got this.”

He heaves himself up out of bed, feeling anxious and waterlogged. He pushed all thoughts aside and makes his way out the door and to his sister’s room. The important thing to do right now  _ isn’t _ get scared about the Nathan-related ‘why’s. The important thing is to make sure his sister is  _ safe _ .

_ She’s probably just sick,  _ he tells himself as he knocks on her door, two fragile drum beats against the wood.  _ That’s all. _

There’s no reply to his knocking. Even when he puts his ear to the door and lightly calls her name, the room beyond remains silent. It seems empty, but the door is locked, which doesn’t seem much like the girl he knows at all.

He doesn’t have much time to ponder why she’d lock the door - a lightning realization hits him that he  _ hasn’t taken his fucking pills _ .

With a quick groan of frustration, he double-times it down the stairs and makes his way to the case that holds his meds. He can’t open it alone, given the lock his parents put on it after the shit that went down three Summers ago, but luckily the kitchen is less empty than it normally is in the early mornings.

“Nathan Caulfield!” Dad’s voice is loud, like usual, a warm boom that reverberates through the small kitchen. “Shouldn’t you be at school?” He seems to shrink for a moment, somehow, and turns away from the bacon he’s frying to face his son with a soft expression. “Are you taking a mental health day? You’ve only got a million left, bud, so feel free."

Nathan laughs quietly. Whenever Dad talks to him like that, he always feels like a kid, but in a good way. Somehow. “I thought I had a million the last time I took a day off?”

“Well, you know. They collect interest.”

They grin at each other for a minute before Nathan averts his eyes. “I’m okay today. Just woke up late.”

Mom’s voice comes from behind, “Doesn’t Max usually wake you?” When he turns to her, she’s fixing her shirt, trying to make the suit jacket sit properly against the collar.  _ Right. She goes to work at 9. _ “Is she still home, too?”

Nathan shrugs. “No clue. No reply when I knocked.” Finally, he steps forward and fixes her collar himself. “Maybe her girlfriend picked her up or something.”

“Thanks,” she sighs in reply. Her eyes look so tired, even under her make-up. This new job must be stressing her out. “I’d stay to figure it out with you, but-”

“You’ve got work.” He leans up to give her a rare kiss on the cheek, since he’s already so close. Distantly afraid of her response,he doesn’t meet her eyes (just in case). “It’s okay. Go get that bread.”

She makes a face at the expression, but seems amused. Her own kiss finds its place against his forehead, her fingers trailing soft against his hair to brush it out of the way. “Love you, sweetpea. See you at dinner?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

The floppy slap of slippered footsteps causes them both to turn their attention back inside the kitchen. Dad stands there, holding a paper-towel-wrapped sheath of bacon and a thermos of what Nathan guesses by the smell is coffee. “Have a good day at work, babe.”

Nathan steps into the kitchen so they can kiss, making way towards the drawer with his medicine in it. He wondered for a while why they didn’t put it in the bathroom with all the other medicine, but the kitchen makes more sense - the kitchen floors are so creaky, it’s impossible to miss someone sneaking about here at night. Especially if that someone is Nathan, terrified and sad and wanting to down his months-worth dosage in one night.

Holding the pills, he feels sheepish. Maybe ashamed, if he were to admit it to himself. Like a child being chastised for his wrong-doings, mixed with what he imagines a guilty criminal might stew over late at night in their misery.

When Dad comes in to eat his own breakfast, Nathan holds the locked box up for him to see, his own eyes on the ground. “Little help?”

“Oh, shoot!” Dad rubs his greasy hands off on his old jean shorts. “Yup. Close your eyes so I can grab the key.”

Nathan smiles at him thinly, shakes his head, and walks into the living room instead. He tries very hard to ignore the sounds of rustling, but it’s near impossible; Dad is obviously trying to hide which drawer the key is hidden in. If it’s even in a drawer at all.

The whole process makes him feel… bad. Not just bad feelings, but like  _ he _ is bad. A bad son. A bad person. He wonders if they’ll ever trust him again with something like that. He wonders if he can even trust himself. It’s been three years, longer since he was adopted by them, and though he knows - he  _ knows _ \- he’s improving, it still feels oddly hopeless.

Is it even possible to feel hope and hopelessness at the same time?

The sound of the pill bottle being shaken fills the space between them and Nathan turns around. Dad is holding the pills up like they’re a mighty weapon, or maybe a funny maraca, the other hand pointing at it goofily.

“Candy time, kid! Let’s see - what’s the morning dose?”

Nathan can’t help but laugh at the face the man makes while squinting at the little orange bottle. The label has long-since read  _ Nathan Caulfield _ , but the clinical text of his name still makes his chest feel momentarily lighter. He wonders if the Caulfield across from him feels as much happiness reading that as he does. “Just two, Dad. I can get them.”

“Alright, alright…” Thankfully, he hands the medication over to his son, no problem. To Nathan’s relief, he doesn’t even look nervous to do so. “Those look nasty, though. Not at all like candy. I’ll get you a drink - orange juice, coffee, milk…?”

“Coffee sounds good.”

“I’ll get it nice and sweet for ya’.”

Nathan swallows the pills dry as soon as Dad turns his back. “Thanks, old man.”

“You’re welcome, young man.”

While Dad gets his cup of coffee ready, Nathan brings out his phone to text Max. It seems strange she’d leave without telling him, even if Chloe dragged her out of the house (as she is known to do). She’d at  _ least _ send a text.

Only, there’s no text from Max at all. Just a text from Victoria of her outfit today, then one saying  _ miss you, _ then another complaining about her math homework. He misses her, too. They haven’t seen each other since July, which is crazy. And he  _ knows _ crazy.

Laughing at his own little joke, he scrolls through Max’s chat log instead. Nothing alarming. She’s seemed tired lately, but there’s nothing else to point towards her being in trouble. In selfies, she looks happy.

_ U at skool? _ he sends her. Then, after a bit of thought,  _ Im gona b late  _ 🙁  _ C U l8r _

Max hates the way he texts, but that’s half the fun.  _ “Even adopted sisters are fun to tease!”  _ he would joke to her, pretending to pull her hair. She’d playfully smack his hand away and call him a dork or a goofball or even a boob if she felt like it.

There isn’t an immediate response, so he sets his phone down and drinks his coffee. The weight of his wondering is starting to become heavy. He wants to know what’s up and where she is and why her door is locked and why she didn’t text and what is she feeling is she okay and-

All of the questions make his mind feel like television static.

Dad ruffles his hair, shocking him. When he jumps, Dad brings his hand back quickly, but otherwise tries his best not to react. He’s pretty bad at it. “See you later, bud! Feel free to stay home, if you like.” He starts to walk about but turns back quickly. “Oh! And I’ll be in my office if you need me.”

“Thanks, Dad. Love you.”

“Love you, too, Nate-  _ Nathan. _ ”

Nathan sips at his coffee while he watches Dad walk away. It was sweet of him to correct the nickname. It’s sweeter that he remembers after so many years.

When the coffee is gone, the thoughts remain;  _ is Max okay? _ He can’t stop thinking about the locked door. Max never locks her door, even when she should. The number of times he’s seen Chloe Price’s big white ass speaks for itself.

He can only imagine a locked door meaning trouble.

Is it drugs? As soon as he thinks it, he feels like a middle-aged mom that scours the web to figure out what marijuana looks like after her son smiles too big after soccer practice. Ugh. Anyways, Max isn’t the drug type. She prefers more relaxing stimulants, like photography and turn-based RPGs and bullying him for wearing too much black.

Maybe it’s… But he doesn’t want to think about that; that’s a different kind of addiction, one he’d happily trade out for even the weird synthetic stuff that Mel sells to folks she doesn’t like. The scars on Nathan’s legs and sides tell too many secrets. The thought of Max’s freckles separated by collapsed red grid-lines makes him ill and he stands, suddenly jittery. When he drops his mug, it doesn’t shatter, but the sound makes him jump all the same.

The mug is empty, so he leaves it there, and goes up to Max’s room.

The lock on his pill box is there because something bad happened. Max locking the door means something bad might be about to happen.

He knocks on the door again, once, twice, right between the purple letters X and I. _M_ _ ax, never Maxine, _ but the old letters spell her name out in full anyways. Nathan, never Nate. It’s kind of cute that they match. They even both like taking pictures and being kind of bitchy and pretentious.

The similarities should end there, he thinks nervously. Let them end there.

There’s no reply this time, either, but he knocks once more  _ just in case _ before he starts picking the lock or something. He has no idea if he even remembers how to do that, but Chloe taught him in like tenth grade, so the knowledge has gotta be somewhere. Breaking and entering is just like riding a bike, surely.

The lack of response makes him sigh shakily. He quickly grabs a paperclip and a bobby pin, then hurries back to finally put Chloe’s lessons to good use. He thinks she’d agree with their usage in this situation in particular.

Picking the lock is difficult, but he focuses, biting his lip. He’s close, just about to get it, when he murmurs, “Oh, just fucking  _ open _ .”

Seemingly at the sound of his voice, there’s a sudden crash, and then Max’s own voice whispering harshly,  _ “Shit!” _

“Max?” He puts a hand flat on the door. “Are you okay?” 

He turns the knob and the door swings open.

In the middle of the room is Max, looking frightened and confused, half-leaning over her broken camera. There are pictures all over the floor. Some show Chloe with blue hair instead of her usual green, which must have been some crazy hard editing work. Some show Max in clothes he hasn’t seen her wearing, or with a short bobbed haircut she’s never had. 

Or, never had before now, it seems. Her usual braid is lobbed off, the pair of scissors still in her hand. It looks like she was trying to take a picture of herself while holding the scissors and he’d startled her, causing her to drop it.

Hair surrounds the pictures and the broken camera in long, brunette waves.

“Holy shit, Max. Are you-” What a stupid fucking question. But he asks it anyways. “Are you alright? Is this, like, an art thing, or do you need me right now?”

Max stares at him incredulously. He’s never seen that expression on her usually sweet face, he thinks. It’s a little insulting. “Do I…  _ need _ you?”

“Okay. Ow.” Yep, definitely insulting. He pushes it away for later. This isn’t about Nathan-related hurts, it’s about Max and making sure she’s going to be okay. “I just mean, you know, you don’t seem so…” He stares at the sloppily-cut hair. She even did her own bangs - and god  _ damn, _ it’s pretty bad. Not as bad as it could be, given she  _ cut her own bangs _ , but still. He almost mourns. “I know it can be hard to reach out. Even if you don’t want to talk to me, you know, you’ve got people who love you that aren’t going to judge you. We just want you safe.”

Is he pushing it too far? He doesn’t even know if she’s hurting or not. Maybe she was just cutting her hair for some project and messed it up. All those moments by himself thinking about it, worrying… It sticks in his head even now.

She’s his  _ sister _ . What else is he supposed to do? He can’t even make fun of her crappy bangs until she’s okay.

She’s staring at him in open shock. “Um. Wow. Thanks, Nathan…” It’s said so awkwardly, he  _ knows _ he misread things. 

But no - he’s done it before, said stupidly emotional shit to Max or even Chloe and had them smile at him and laugh it off, saying they’re okay, don’t worry. The way Max is looking at him now isn’t normal for her. It’s almost like she’s afraid of him. 

“Yeah, of course.” He licks his lips awkwardly. “Sucks about the camera. I’ll bet we can fix it, though, if you want to.”

“Yeah…” 

Max steps from foot to foot, looking around and trying to push her hair behind her ear. The sight fills him with relief - finally, she’s acting more like herself. He’s spent years reading and learning her body movements, figuring out what she feels when she can’t quite find the words to tell him. Right now, she wants to ask him a question, but is anxious to say it out loud.

“You can ask me,” he says, like when they were younger, and he was just the sad kid her parents adopted and she was just the shy girl that lived in this new, strange world where people were  _ nice _ to him. His words are so much less defensive now than they were then. This time, he’s helping her. “You can always ask me stuff, Max.”

Max nods. “Okay. I’m just… confused. That’s all.”

“Confused?” Cutting her hair - maybe it’s a gender thing? He thinks he can probably handle a gender thing. If Chloe’s blue-edited hair is part of their expressing it, then that’s some dope art.

Max worries their lip. “Just… Why are you here?”

That’s enough to give him pause. “...Like, existentially?

“No,” She sighs. She sounds frustrated, but not as much as she sounds tired. “Why are you in my house?”

He freezes. Maybe it  _ is _ just like when they were kids. “I- I live here. This is my home.” He laughs, feeling short of breath. “I’ve lived here for years, Max, you know that.”

She shakes her head, her choppy locks dropping stray hairs almost dismissively. “But- Isn’t this... my house?” She doesn’t look so sure anymore. Her face is  _ confused puppy _ all over.

Man, it wasn’t even this bad when he was first adopted. Max used to get mad at his tantrums and flashbacks, yeah, but she was  _ sweet _ , and she’d wanted to be his friend. Why is she freaking now instead of all those years ago? The hell is this even about?

“Of course it’s your house. You’re my sister. It’s  _ our _ house. We’re a family.” That he can keep the waver out of his voice makes him oddly proud. 

He remembers Mom saying those words, too.  _ We’re a family.  _ It used to be a threat, back when- when that awful man, Sean, would put his hand on Nathan’s tiny shoulder. When Mom said it, when she says it now, her tired eyes leveled at him in patience even when she’s pissed, it’s a promise. A wonderful one.

Max’s eyes are doe-wide with shock again, dumbfounded. “You’re my brother?!”

“Yes? I mean, I see us as family. I know people get weird sometimes about me being adopted, but- Shit!” Red leaks from her nose, right over her mouth, and she doesn’t even flinch. When she rubs it away, it’s almost practiced. “Are you okay? The Hell is going on, Max?!”

The look she’s giving him is so much stranger than surprise. He can’t place it for a moment, searches her face for some emotion he understands, but finds only tired, hollowed eyes.

Max looks  _ old. _ Her eyes are a mirror image of their grandfather’s - the same face he makes when he gets too close to thinking that history is repeating itself, that he fought his war for nothing. The blood under her nose sticks to her skin like an old companion.

For a brief, horrifying moment, all Nathan can think is  _ I am staring at a stranger _ .

The way Max is looking at him, it’s like she’s seeing a stranger, too. Like someone you only know from photographs.

Abruptly she asks, “Why doesn’t it work on you?” The question is almost to the air, directed more at the room than himself. Her nose bleeds again, heavier this time, and she flinches like an afterthought.

“Work on…?” Something half-clicks in his brain. “Are you being a bitch and lashing out? Is that it? It doesn’t work on me because I used to do it, too. I get that, I do, but you don’t have to push me away. Don’t hurt people just because you’re scared.”

She shakes her head like he  _ doesn’t _ get it and it kind of pisses him off. He’s starting to feel a bit like lashing out himself and reels it in quick and tight. He has to be understanding right now. Max needs him.

So he says, “Don’t give me that, Maxine. I’ve been through this shit more times than I can count and you know it, too. If anyone’s going to understand this, it’s me.”

It’s like dawn across her face. There is no sunny horizon or bright ray of light, just a distant beginning of a day shining through a muggy, overcast sky. Her battle-worn eyes are alight with recognition. “Are you… the key? Nathan, are you- Holy shit. The storm. I-”

The storm? “What, like, the dream?” He glares at her now, because he can’t help it. “You know I’m sensitive about that. I shared that because I trusted you. Stop it.”

She shakes her head, sending more loose hairs to the floor and blood spilling down her chin. “It’s you. Holy shit, I’m an idiot. I have to- I have to-” Her eyes meet his again with such intense determination that he flinches backwards. “Can you drive?”

“Um… Yes?” Is that a trick question? Is she leading up to something else mean and cryptic and weird? He doesn’t understand what’s happening anymore. Maybe she’s right - this  _ isn’t _ like anything he’s been through before. “I drive us to school every day, Max. Are you on bad shit or something? If you are, I need to know-”

“Can you drive me to Arcadia Bay?”

There it is. There it  _ fucking  _ is. It’s not drugs at all - it’s just misplaced trust and a whole lot of dramatics.

He clenches his teeth, breathing in and out like he was taught. It never fucking works, but he does it, because he has to. He has to.

When he replies, he feels Sean Prescott’s hand on his shoulder again. His voice breaks with it, bending under the imaginary weight, but he can’t find the will to be embarrassed. Just hurt. “Not okay, Max.”

It almost looks like it wasn’t on purpose, like Max really just… wanted to go there. Like she’d seen the lighthouse in an old postcard and thought  _ what a lovely town _ . But she knows he’s from there. Hell,  _ she’s  _ from there, she and Chloe both. They both know too much about the piece of shit that used to pretend to be his father - and that he still lives there. Fuck, Chloe’s own father  _ died _ there. Max knows better.

She knows and has known for years (years!) that Nathan can’t stand to step foot in that cursed town. The memories are too fresh, probably always would be. They haunt his mind like a projector left running, the film burning and burning but always playing, even when he can’t see it.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I didn’t-”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t. “Just… I want to help you. I can’t help you if you’re just going to hurt me when I reach out to you.”

It’s like a flip is switched. The haunted look doesn’t leave her eyes, but she looks more like Max again -  _ his _ Max, his sister, who is sweet and thoughtful and kind of pretentious and always hilarious. “Oh, Nathan… I’m sorry. I really do just need to go there. I didn’t say that to hurt you.”

“...You didn’t?”

“No, Nathan. I’m sorry.”

He nods, for lack of a better thing to do with the nervous energy filling his body. “Okay. Thank you. I know it’s hard not to lash out sometimes, but you know, I can handle some ribbing if you need a punching bag. Just not- Not too much. Don’t bring him up like that. I can’t.”

“Okay. I don’t need a punching bag-” She stops herself and takes a deep breath, looking to the side while she thinks. “Do you know anyone who would drive me to- there?”

He shrugs. “Maybe Joyce? I know Chloe hates going, too, but Joyce or David could take you, if you could handle their questions.” He swallows. “But… Why do you want to go?”

“I just… really think I need to be at the lighthouse right now. I know it’s weird, but-”

“No, I get it.” Sometimes, after the nightmare where the town is destroyed, he imagines the coast as it was. 

Bright even with the ever-present clouds dimming the beach, waves gentle near the shore and growing more restless the further it grew from the sand. Gulls crying loudly, too loudly, flying any which way in search of food to steal or a local to accost. The chill of the sea air.

He misses it, too. Those memories are ruined, tainted and filthy, but the bay itself… The bay doesn’t deserve his hatred or his fear.

“...Thanks, Nathan.”

He nods again. He feels like a bobblehead. “Want me to fix your hair?”

“ _ Please. _ ”

By the time he’s done, it’s far from perfect, but it’s way less  _ I had a mental breakdown _ and way more  _ asshole at the salon fucked up my bangs. _ And wowsers, those bangs are still really bad. He tried his best, but Nathan is far from a stylist and his hands have a natural jitter.

She calls Joyce during the haircut while Nathan is trying not to slice her face open and by the end of it, she’s ready to jump off the stool and run full-sprint to the Madsens’ house. 

He tries and fails to situate the bang disaster, just to get it to  _ sit _ a little better, but stops after he notices the way she tenses at his touch. He gives up, suggesting instead, “Maybe wear one of Chloe’s beanies?”

She just nods her head. The tiredness is back full force, but she still seems oddly driven, just less restless now that she has a ride. The image of her jumping from the ledge terrifies him.

“Can I ask you to do something for me?”

She looks up at him. “...What do you need?”

She sounds so guarded. Like her brother, Nathan thinks.

“Will you take a selfie with Joyce at the lighthouse? I love your selfies. And I-” He swallows. “I’m scared of what you’ll do if you’re alone up there. I love you, and even if you’re being an asshole today, losing you is-” The lump in his throat swells and he chokes around the emotion.

The storm rages in his mind again, a memory of a fantasy. On his worst nights, Max is in the middle, crawling through the frigid downpour, fighting against the wind to find shelter.

Now, the water drags her under. There are whales beached upon the shore. Everything is wrong.

“Oh!” The light grey beanie settles awkwardly  as she stops fiddling with it. “Oh, shit, no, I just want to get a picture of it. I’m not going to-” She exhales, and with it, so does he, a large note of tension melting away so suddenly his knees go jelly for a second. “I’m okay, I promise. I’m sorry for acting crazy.”

Nathan laughs a little humorlessly. “You’re apologizing to  _ me _ for acting crazy. You’re so funny, Maxine.”

“ _ Max _ -”

The laugh is much more real this time. “Yeah, I know. Dumbass.” Without thinking, he leans forward to kiss the top of her head, catching a whiff of Chloe’s cologne on the hat. “Just be safe, okay? I’m not mad, even if I sound mad. You just scared the shit out of me.”

Max looks kind of bewildered, uncomfortable if he’s honest with himself, but she’s smiling, too. It’s such a warm expression, he smiles back at it, happy just to see her more like herself. She doesn’t reply beyond that, looking down at the ground instead. 

He’s used to that; watching her gently brush away imaginary dirt under her eye and smile at the ground when she feels a conversation has come to an end. He’s always kind of liked that about her - she asks so many goddamn questions sometimes, but she never fills silence just to fill it.

Nathan has never really been like that. “Do you… need me for anything else? If not, I think I’m going to sit outside Dad’s door for a bit. Maybe take some shots outside.”

She takes a deep breath, eyes finding his face but avoiding eye-contact. Words come to her, and he can see them, but she doesn’t speak them for a moment. Then, “I’m okay. I’ll wait for Joyce.”

He nods. Even though he wants time to process and time to breathe, he doesn’t want to leave her alone. “Okay. Um- Love you and stuff.”

Her hand still on her face, she laughs. “Yeah, okay.” She stands slowly, like an old woman with older bones. “Bye, Nathan. Thank you for being so cool about everything… It makes me happy to see you like this.”

He raises an eyebrow dryly. “What, terrified and pissed?”

“I mean… I don’t know. Healthy. The stuff you said sounded pretty well-adjusted, is all. Better than me, I mean.”

“Hush.” The fondness in his voice shocks him a little. “I’ve been through some shit. You get good at it after a while, that’s all.”

“I think it’s more than that.” Normally, she might say more, but now she looks rung-out and fresh out of spoons.

“...Thanks, Maxie.” His socked foot kicks at the ground. He needs to start moving, he thinks, before all this energy drives him wild. He feels like a jar of bees teetering on the edge of a flight of stairs. “I know you don’t like- But, can I hug you? I’m still kind of…”

He sounds pathetic, he thinks, but the face she gives him is without pity and she nods, moving forward to give him a hesitant squeeze around the middle. They’re pretty close to the same height, but she feels small somehow. Tiny and fragile.

So unlike her hardened, haunted eyes.

He leaves one more kiss against her head, more affectionate than he ever is outside of maybe a birthday or something, and then they part ways. Nathan goes to his room to grab his camera, because if he doesn’t do something right now he  _ will _ combust. Photography is a good distraction. It’ll keep him busy until Max gets home - and she  _ will  _ get home.

He tells himself that over and over.

Max will come home.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are a time-traveler's best friends!


End file.
